


for the peace of you I hold such strife

by vegarin



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegarin/pseuds/vegarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate struggles with yet another superfluous mission. Takes place within Stay Frosty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the peace of you I hold such strife

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on HBO's Generation Kill and has no bearing whatsoever on its real life counterparts.

One cannot simply will the standing order to reverse itself by staring at the radio, but it takes a few long seconds for Nate to gather his breath and release the radio handle, another second to let it go entirely in favor of his M-4.

Outside the meager shelter of his Victor, the world has taken on the familiar, bright-edged quality that usually accompanies sleep-deprivation. He blinks a couple of times to clear his head, and while his vision only marginally improves, the world finally comes into focus long enough for him to start assessing the AO.

So. Where. A ramshackle shed, northeast of their current position, which they passed just before deciding to dig in for the night. Who. He cannot bring himself to go through a mental list of his men who are still well enough for this extraneous duty, so he skips to When. Less than two kliks away, he estimates, probably 20, 30 mikes to cover the ground one way and make it back before the dark sets in. There's still enough time. If he moves fast.

If _he_ moves fast.

The decision is made without any conscious effort.

Stafford and Christeson are dozing off in the back of the Humvee, safely cocooned between supply boxes and water tanks. At Nate's approach, Stafford is instantly jostled awake, his hand already on his rifle. Nate may have felt gratified for such direct evidence against their supposed lack of combat readiness the Command likes to accuse his men of, except none of his COs are likely to witness this firsthand. They're never around enough to see this, this confirmation of their men's persistent strength that never fails to awe Nate.

"Wha-?" Q-Tip blinks owlishly at Nate, and then at the dusty sunlight creeping in through the tent camouflage covering their Victor. "What's up, LT?"

"Your watch, Stafford." Nate keeps his voice low. Christeson is blissfully lost to sleep at the far corner, mumbling something unintelligible against a wooden crate of MREs. "I'm making a round."

Stafford suppresses a yawn, but there's not a single complaint as he snaps to, untroubled and laid-back. "Right-o, right-o, sir."

Nate allows a small smile, inexplicably cheered by the easy way Stafford moves into the passenger seat. There's no hint at all that Stafford had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh just a few days ago.

That smile carries him through the desert air he has to fight from the second he steps out of the tent, but it inevitably disappears when he becomes acutely aware of the lack of Mike's steady presence at his side. It's strategically prudent for Nate to abstain himself from showing his face unnecessarily at Battalion, he and Mike have decided, giving the Command a fewer chances to be reminded why they're not exactly fond of Bravo 2. Mike, apt at making himself invisible, is at Battalion instead, making sure Bravo 2 wouldn't miss out on any valuable intel.

And it has proven itself to be a decent plan. Until now.

He would like to forge ahead and get it over with, but he needs to notify at least one TL, as per the SOP. Nate doesn't spare a glance at Victor One sitting quietly at the edge of the berm surrounding their encampment. Victor 2 is sitting closest, for which Nate is grateful. Espera's up in his Humvee. Lilley and Leon are situated in their respective graves, still not completely recovered from their sickness. The rest of the camp - he flinches to think it, but the description, unbidden, comes to him anyway - is quiet as a grave.

"Sergeant." Nate approaches Espera, who looks up from servicing his weapon. "I'm checking out the perimeter to the northeast side of the camp."

Espera has the grace not to look outwardly suspicious, but his one eyebrow goes way up. "Sir?"

This particular neck of the woods has already been secured. They haven't been notified of any enemy activities in their sector, and the war, they have been told, is over, or at least it's limping its way toward the expected end. None of which Espera needs to say out loud to remind Nate. "Orders," says Nate, offering one word that explains everything away so easily.

That's never stopped Espera from demanding the details of yet another bullshit mission or volunteering a tirade of commentaries on the evident stupidity of the Command, but all Espera volunteers this time is a terse "Yes, sir."

Even without the dark and hollowed eyes on Espera's face, the lack of diatribes alone says enough about the state he must be in. Such looks, familiar to Nate by now, only serve to remind him there's nothing within his capabilities to fix them. Nothing, except to face them and take note of his failure.

Nate manages a nod at Espera and turns away, making minimal contacts with the rest of the camp - not a difficult maneuver, since they've been on 25% watch for the last couple of hours, one order he gladly gave without any hesitation - until all is well behind him.

He doesn't have to scope out his target objective. Even with his sand-stung eyes alone, he can clearly see a lone, collapsed shed about a klick and a half ahead in the northwest field, planked by short, withered trees and shriveling plants. He doesn't observe anything that might be obstacles in his path, no serious visual obstructions that may become an issue later. The craters caused by LAVs last night may be unstable, but those can be easily avoided. The shed itself appears non-threatening. It could've been used by a small - very small - family, or by shepherds who came looking for shelters with their herds, all before the land's gone dry. The crumbling shed is the only remnant left of them now in this endlessly ravaged field - the shed and brown, wilted trees.

Not trees, Nate corrects himself, more like perennial plants commonly found surrounding flat dune formations. Geography admittedly hasn't been his favorite or best subject, but he can still dutifully recall some passages of the textbooks he's studied. If he ignores the tell-tale bomb craters, he may even be able to imagine this vista right out of the prose from his early storybooks. _Myths and Legends of Babylonia and Assyria_ , of Marduk and Anu. Ishtar and Ea. He traces his memories of the ancient Babylonian pantheon, the great battles of Gilgamesh. He traces his memories of what he conjured up in his head as a boy, of the brittle beauty of a desert.

He's tired. That's no excuse, but that at least explains why it takes an unusual amount of effort to bring himself back to now, so that the present edges out the ephemeral fragments of his childhood.

And exhaustion might also explain why, even though he's managed to leave his platoon behind, his thoughts have stayed along with them still. Just as well, since it is how it always goes. Muwafaqiyah is well behind them, and Baghdad ahead of them, and yet his thoughts are lagging behind, decidedly fractured: Pappy was almost lost to them. Walt's semi-catatonic. And Dave, with the EPW. And his men, on that scorched bridge -

Not even in his dreams can he dare to imagine how this, any of this, would ever end well. How any of this will end at all.

He breathes in and quickens his steps.

It's mostly the muscle memory that lets him ride through and takes him further away, each step a replica of the one coming before it. Repetition, one of the numerous things the Corps methodically instills in every Marine. Enables you to suppress everything from physical exhaustion to mental and emotional uncertainty. Wipe off everything but reactions engraved in your muscle cores until every learned behavior becomes habitual, ingrained and instinctive.

When you stop to think, not react, is when you lose the momentum and stumble. Or, so they teach you.

It's a necessity that may have saved his life on more than one occasion; there may be nothing more dangerous than this blind adherence to training. He's fought against this cognitive dissonance, never giving one more weight than the other. And yet here and now, when each second being in command seems to steal the very last bit of his strength and every leg he can stand on, he falls back on his training, with a cowardly relief.

He spends the next two mikes reciting the SOPs in his head and scanning the area at the same time. No fireworks this evening. No arties danger-close, no tracers lighting up in the distance, and only a couple of CASEVAC birds hovering in the indigo sky tampered with frayed auburn edges.

When he is in a direct line of sight with the objective, he doublebacks to check his blindside and scan for any sign of life within the shed, still maintaining the distance. No flickering sign of life, no heat signature. Clear.

And then he feels a movement on his six. Oddly, he's more perplexed than alarmed. There is no attempt to disguise the approach, and the quick rhythm of each step, even when the figure is a mere shadow against the horizon, is eerily familiar.

Of course.

Nate turns and waits. The blurry movement gradually calms into stillness, and into the familiar shape of one Brad Colbert.

Nate's flak vest seems tighter and weightier, digging into his skin through the layers of protective gears. He's come fairly close to losing his easy rapport with his team one leader, and he cannot afford to lose it completely - more to the point, he would rather not - but with Brad Colbert, there's no benign concession, no middle ground, no margin for compromises.

"Hey, LT," Brad announces breezily once he catches up with Nate. "Fancy meeting you here, sir." He must have jogged the rest of the way, but there's not a breath out of place in Iceman's usual calm disposition.

Logically, Brad's sudden presence here makes little sense. Nate has been vague to Espera on purpose, not letting on the specific coordinates of his destination or the reason behind this little excursion, except - of course. "Mike's a fucking mother hen," he concludes.

Brad remains quite maddeningly cheerful. "That he is, sir. He tells me you could probably use some company."

Nate has to rein in a sigh before it slips away from him. "I have it under control, Brad."

"I have no doubt in my mind, sir, but it'd still be a crime against humanity to have your nice backside go unwatched." At Nate's look, Brad adds blithely, "Gunny's words, not mine, sir."

This has been one of the possible risks, that Mike could find out before Nate makes it back, though Nate expected Mike to know Nate wouldn't be wild about having their only remaining and intact team leader out here along with him, therefore away from their platoon.

But then again, the commander of said platoon is out here as well, on a foot patrol.

Mike's usually reticent, but he can send a hell of a message when he wants to.

"Give it to me straight, Sergeant. How much trouble am I in?"

Brad looks at him sideways. "You may be able to recall an incident from several weeks ago that involved a certain corporal from my team, a set of exploding toiletries and a certain gunnery sergeant's helmet, as well as the ensuing...catastrophe."

"Ah." Indeed Nate has no problem recalling the incident. At some point in the future, perhaps after his 89th birthday _and_ after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he may begin to have trouble recalling how he had to pry Mike's fingers away from a frying pan just about to be utilized as an assault weapon, but probably not until then. Nate pauses for a moment. "I may have to hitch a ride with you for the rest of the way, Sergeant."

"Gunny will have my head. He will have my head and use it as a target for his P90 in his backyard at our next BBQ." Brad does an excellent job looking scandalized, no doubt a skill learned from Ray through osmosis. "Sir, why would you want to traumatize his neighbors like that?"

Nate doesn't try to hide a wry smile on his face. "I suspect you'd have little to no problem with my head being utilized instead of yours."

"I wouldn't worry, LT. We can safely assume Gunny would try to avoid a court-martial if at all possible."

"I suppose I can only hope Mike considers shooting me in the head to be a transgression worthy of a court-martial."

"A solid tactical move, sir." Brad's voice, to others, may betray nothing other than tacit levity, but Nate's homemade cipher for Sergeant Brad Colbert, still somewhat reliable, can decode it nonetheless. Nate has no ground to win here, and Brad fucking knows it. If he insists that Brad turn back and get some much needed shut-eye instead, Brad is going to counter it with the SOP. Nate can read the intention plainly from the angle Brad's jaw is cinched tight.

So Nate's left with only one viable option - wrap this up fast so that Brad can get that rest he needs. Nate nods toward their objective. Brad takes his cue, expression inscrutable, and nods back once. They both move forward in silence.

Brad Colbert projects well, Nate observes as they begin scouting the area. There's no hitch in his steps, and his purposeful movements are as swift and lethal as they've always been. Nate knows for a fact, however, that regardless of how Ray may have successfully cajoled him into sleeping here and there, Brad hasn't had a moment of peace since Walt accidentally fired a shot at a civilian driver.

Brad projects well, but cracks have been showing for some time. Nate has no plaster, no band-aids, nothing that can fill those cracks. Nothing except to face them and take note of yet another of his failures.

Failure is, Nate fears, always an option.

Nate signals Brad after they cross another berm, and they move in sync, covering each side until they're in the full view of the dilapidated shed half buried in sand. Nate conducts a 360 degree check of the perimeter and stalks across the field, with Brad mirroring him.

"Nothing but dirt surrounding the house, sir," Brad reports when they meet up at the front entrance. A "house" is a rather generous label for what the shed really is, and Brad expertly wields irony like he handles his assault rifles. "At least it's not a busted up T72 tank in a fucking swamp again."

Nate's success rate for mustering up any decent defense for their CO, or who they both suspect to be truly behind this assignment, isn't as high as he would like. Before he wonders whether opting for silence would be a wise move, Brad shrugs and saves Nate the trouble.

"Guess we'll have to give credit where it's due, sir. It must've taxed his already limited brain cells to come up with this genius plan."

Brad is staring with a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. A peace offering, Nate thinks. Nate returns it, because he's too tired to fight it.

Brad gestures with his M-4. "Shall we, sir?"

Nate reciprocates with a tilt of his head, and they cross the space between them and the shed, with Brad covering his six.

The inside is as dismal as the outside. Dust and sand blanket every inch of open surface. There's no wall left standing. It looks close to an archaeological dig than to a residence that was occupied at some point within the last century. There's no remainder of a home this used to be.

"Clear," Brad reports from Nate's left.

Nate covers the living room, or something it might have been once, in a quick sweep. One side's completely caved in, and he rather futily hopes that the collapse occurred from natural causes, not from a passing 203 round. Broken furniture and pieces of stained clothes cover the rest of the intact area. The kitchen is mostly the same, already stripped bare by previous visitors. There is a hole in the wall where a chimney, currently scattered all over the floor, used to be, and the twilight slips between the cracks, cloaking the space in amber and red glow.

 _Fear no more the heat of the sun_ , he murmurs. _Golden lads, and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers come to dust._

Nate doesn't realize he's actually spoken out loud until Brad shoots him a look as he passes by in brisk steps, covering the rest of the living room.

Nate looks through the empty kitchen cabinets, miraculously still left standing with covers unhinged. "Shakespeare," Nate answers Brad's silent question. "From _Cymbeline_ , I think. Clear."

Brad's response comes from somewhere Nate's eleven-o-clock, "You mean you don't know, sir?"

"Contrary to what you may have been led to believe, Brad, I am unable to quote and cite every line written by Shakespeare."

"I'm beside myself with disappointment, sir." A grunt, and the sound of furniture getting upturned. "The betting pool was up to a hundred."

"On the other hand," Nate adds thoughtfully, after he narrowly avoids kicking over a rotten wooden table, "if you have any pressing need for the names in the pantheon of Babylonian deities, I may be your guy."

A pause, then: "Sir, please never let it be said you've learned nothing remotely useful or practical from your stunt at the overpriced, pansy-ass liberal institution supposedly espousing education."

That gets an involuntary smile. They proceed to cover the rest, and after every inch they can see has been unearthed and uncovered, and after they find themselves outside once again, Nate corrects him, "Roosevelt Memorial County Library, Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"My old town library is where I first learned the most useful and practical information such as the names in the Babylonian pantheon. Coincidentally, it did not cost me, or my parents, a single dime. Not even in late fees." Brad looks at him, and Nate almost smiles again. "I was an adorable kid."

"Of course you were, sir."

The grin Nate sees now is a pale approximation of Brad's usual ones circa pre-Iraq, but Nate knows it's still the only thing real anyone's managed to get out of him since Muwafaqiyah. Something in Nate unknots itself a little, making it easier for him to breathe.

They turn to examine the shed they've just exited for one last time. It sits undisturbed in a faint golden glow as the sun begins to set. It seems complete in its solitude, devoid of everything that made it living and breathing at one point in the past.

A mere ghost of a dream.

Realization comes to him in little increments. There is no more connection between this dry, brittle land Nate is treading on now and the land he's dreamed of while sprawled over his bed one late summer afternoon, than there may be between who he is and who he was then.

Nate breathes in and adjusts his straps before turning away. "The area is secure," he tells Brad without looking back. "Let's head back."

"Yes, sir."

Brad's footsteps echo behind him.

The return trip somehow feels longer, each step drawn out and stretched thin. The assignment, however asinine it is, has been achieved, yet lassitude overshadows relief.

They'll be at the POG camp, maybe in a day or two, and barring any more surprises they will make it to Baghdad within the specified time frame. It wouldn't be the first time that particular rug has been pulled from underneath his feet, but still the directives seem congruent with the tidbits of information he's been able to gather from the scuttlebutt and the ever-so-reliable BBC. If he could only be sure of the information they've been receiving -

Maybe he's been doing this wrong. It's almost routine, this dangerous line of thoughts he knows enough to put in the back of his mind but is never able to quench completely. Maybe he has been doing this all wrong. Maybe all he's managed, in the guise of protecting his men, is disobeying orders and alienating his platoon from the Command, therefore endangering his men and the overall operation altogether. They have been more than lucky so far. Even this mission they've just completed, it could've gone down to the Muwafaqiyah level of clusterfuck had he made a wrong call about the area being secure. Maybe next time they will be completely out of luck. Maybe -

Maybes will get Bravo 2 killed.

His is not to reason why.

In certain moments, he thinks he can feel the small indentations on the hard metal in his grip, its markings permanently etched on his fingertips.

" _Sir_."

Nate's left foot barely sidesteps a depression scorched in by recent mortar fires. He recovers his balance and compensates by quickening his steps, but the damage, of course, is already done. It's too much to hope for Brad to have missed his blunder, given Nate may as well have stepped right into the hole without Brad's sharp warning, but Nate wants to remain optimistic. Maybe Brad would let this go, just for once.

Optimism often comes up short in the face of reality. Brad pulls up at his side, atypically formal and strained. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

 _Why do you bother?_ Nate wants to ask Brad, genuinely curious. He would really ask if such an action were at all befitting an officer. Nate has little to offer Brad except for continued disappointment, and yet Brad keeps on with his attempts to redefine insanity - expecting different results, expecting something other than disappointment, when nothing has changed. At this point, one can only assume this man is actively seeking out every chance for Nate to disillusion him even further.

 _Sir, your leadership is the only thing -_

Nate can't be what this man is looking for. This, they both know.

Nate takes a breath and lets it go quickly, hoping to contain any emotion that may leak through his voice, "Permission granted."

"You're wasted out here, sir."

Nate refuses to read into that statement. He's too cornered to be honest, but too tired not to be. "We all are, Brad."

There's a crease just above the bridge of Brad's nose that hints at his current level of frustration, which is to say - high. Subtle, but it's there, and Nate knows this is an equivalent of huffing in exasperation for Brad. Nate regrets being the one who caused it. "Respectfully, sir, why exactly are you out here?"

Nate would rather not have this conversation, if it is at all avoidable. "I take it Gunny didn't fully explain."

"Oh, he explained, sir. It's just the finer details on _why_ that I can't seem to be able to get my head wrapped around."

"Orders." The magic word again, but that's rarely worked with Brad, so it was an idiotic move even to try. Nate tries again, "We were ordered to ascertain the safety of the Company by securing this location."

Brad's not appeased, which is also expected. "On foot? By yourself?"

If Nate's going to have the exact same argument with Mike later, he might just as well rehearse. "We've already had optics and thermals on it. We've bombarded the area all day yesterday. There was no threat. The sector was clear. Our orders were to confirm that fact, and I deemed that it wouldn't require more than one personnel."

He's got to do this better with Mike, Nate thinks ruefully. Even to his own ears, it doesn't sound like he's about to convince anyone.

The order has been to send out a team for this particularly useless exercise. Team 2 is completely out, and as are the half of Team 1, and Lovell's already had enough of this. _Nate_ has had enough of this, his men paying for his stupidity. And none of this is a good enough reason for him to come out here alone. He knows it. Brad and Mike both know that he knows it.

When Nate looks back, the elusive hint of frustration on Brad's face is gone and in its stead is something else, restless and flat and just out of Nate's tenuous grasp.

"Exactly how long ago was it when you last slept, sir?"

Brad's low, clipped voice, as much as the question itself, makes Nate re-assess the direction of this entire discussion. Nate's missing something here. "Brad, I hope you realize that was a rather staggering example of a pot name-calling a kettle."

Brad doesn't change the tone, or the tune. "36 hours? 48? Just a ballpark figure will do, sir."

"I already seem to have a minder, Sergeant," Nate rebukes, deliberately light and cautious, "I don't exactly recall requisitioning for another."

"Or maybe you haven't slept at all since Casey Kasem pulled that last fucking stunt."

Christ. Nate almost wants to rub his eyes, finally piecing it all together. This is Brad Colbert, _furious_. Nate's seen this Brad surface once or twice before, and while on those two occasions fury might've been an appropriate and expected reaction, this time Brad should - does - know better. "Let it go, Brad. It's already done."

"Do you honestly think you should be paying some fucked-up penance for sending Lovell out to that dump?" Brad barrels on, casually discarding Nate's warning. "Or are you just simply suffering from a selfless desire to serve yourself up on a fucking sacrificial alter for every and each clusterfuck of wrong committed in this campaign so you can _feel better_ , at the cost of your own combat effectiveness? Is that what we can continue to expect from you every time another bullshit mission lands on our lap, sir?"

" _Sergeant_."

That stops Brad, but just barely. His mouth's snapped shut, but he's still simmering underneath, and it does not matter whether Nate thinks Brad has every right to question or challenge him, or that neither of them can afford to do this to each other. Here they are now, and Nate _has_ to contain this right now. Fuck. "Your objection is noted and I appreciate your concern. What may or may not have transpired between myself and Sgt. Griego and the subsequent handling of such events, however, are none of your fucking concern. If you continue to concern yourself after my explicit advice against it, I can and will fucking demote you so far back you won't see anything but the bottoms of slit trench latrines for the rest of your service. Am I understood?"

For one suspended moment, Nate imagines Brad may be entertaining the idea of punching him out, but Nate doesn't believe Brad would push that far, and he doesn't. Brad meets his eyes, unyielding and unflinching and absolutely unreadable. "Crystal, sir."

Nate can't be the one looking away first. He waits until Brad's eyes leave Nate's, and only then Nate sets them back on track toward the camp.

Nate slows his steps and digs in a heel of his free hand over his eyes. Brad, as always, is not wrong. Brad's free with his words, at least where Nate is concerned, and Nate does appreciate them - the most respected NCO in the Company wouldn't be wasting his time unless he's deemed Nate to be worth talking to. Except.

Except Nate is not sure what he will find the next time he turns to Brad, and he isn't sure which would be worse - to turn and find the disappointment that he's now accustomed to, or to see there's not even disappointment left to face.

Does it matter? They're both just about equal in their potential to be devastating.

Brad makes things a little easier and a little harder and Nate can't welcome either.

Nate falls behind, needing some distance between his thoughts and their instigator, which is the only reason why, when the ground under Brad abruptly dips in an awkward angle and disappears, Nate isn't standing right next to him. Nate sees it unfold before him just as Brad starts slipping, and he reaches out and grasps onto Brad's shoulders, more a reflex than a calculated movement. When the world tilts on its axles, Nate rolls with the flow and falls backward as the ground comes up to meet him halfway.

When Nate comes to, Brad is screaming at him.

"Sir. _Sir_. _Nate_. Fuck."

Each word is accentuated by painful grips digging into Nate's shoulders, and there's one alarming moment of not knowing. The sunlight is pricking his eyes and Brad's angry breath is hot against his face and there's a blunt pain in the back of his head and he's not at all sure of how this has come to be.

Nate blinks a few times until his vision adjusts itself and the world comes together to form a comprehensive, if not blurry, picture. Brad is kneeling in front of him, and they are on eye level because Nate is currently haphazardly propped against a slope of a ridge formed around a small impact crater. An unstable impact crater. Not recent.

It hasn't been a landmine or an IED or some random mortar fires. In fact, it hasn't been an explosive of any type, because, well, no explosion.

So. They just, simply, slipped while coming down the decline. And Nate's likely hit his head while doing so.

That explains a few things, namely the ringing in his head - not a concussion, probably, as there's no urgent urge to puke his brains out - and the rocks digging into his back and why the look on Brad's face, once again decipherable, seems to be as close to panic as Nate's ever seen.

This must be a page out of a comedy, Nate winces, probably a comedy of absurdity. He's survived Dartmouth, SERE, Afghanistan and a trip across Iraq in the last few years alone and a fucking _slip and fall_ almost takes him out. Nate doesn't like to think he possesses undue pride, but what little he has might suffer from this.

To his relief, at least Brad doesn't appear injured.

"Brad, is there any possible way I can convince you to leave this out of the report?" His throat feels clogged by sand, but Nate manages to grate out something that may be considered as words somewhere, "And possibly never mention it to Gunny?" The list Mike is privately keeping is probably long enough as it is. No reason to make it longer.

Brad freezes, his arms still planted on Nate's either side, like he has to take time to measure pros and cons of Nate's suggestion.

Nate wants to point out that in all fairness this hasn't been entirely his fault. Technically it has been _Brad_ who slipped first, and it's hardly something Brad would want Corporal Person to find out as Ray would dine out on this for _months_.

"Brad?"

Still nothing.

Nate wonders whether he should revisit the possibility that Brad has been hurt after all. And then he remembers their conversation just before the slip-up. It is possible Brad is currently concluding Nate's situational awareness level has dropped to shit. Maybe he's considering the idea of personally removing Nate from the command for being stupid.

Nate might have proceeded to convince himself of one of those possibilities, except the grips on his shoulders gradually tighten until he snaps out of the stupor. Until he realizes Brad is literally shaking his shoulders.

Until he finally focuses on Brad's eyes. He vaguely recalls seeing them on cornered, wounded animals before.

"Don't _ever_ fucking do that again, do you hear me?" Brad says all in one shuddering breath. "Don't you ever _fucking do that again_."

Shock overrides pain and exhaustion in an instant.

There's nothing but the sound of Brad's rapid breathing that shrouds the words in the air, words and movements altogether frozen until Brad unfurls his fingers from Nate's shoulders, one by one, so they can become two separate entities once again.

Brad sinks onto the ground and drops his helmet. His fingers rake through the cropped hair.

For a long moment, Nate watches Brad's long, dirt-covered fingers. They tremble.

"All this." Brad shakes his head, swallowing an incredulous laugh. "What a fucking waste. All of this. And you. _You_."

He looks as broken up as he's been standing over the shattered body of a shepherd boy, and Nate -

Routine and practice. Layer after layer. Nate has believed nothing would prickle through them. But now, Brad is before him and he's broken in, already inside, the precarious balance between them toppling over. Nate wants to right himself, right both of them back to where they have been before this, miles and hours and minutes before this, with the desperation of someone whose wishes are never obtainable.

"A fucking _slope_ , or a stray bullet, or - any one _fucking_ thing can kill you, but why can't, why should I -" Brad grits out his words, each syllable grinding against each other and its original intentions trickling out in fits and starts, until they come to an abrupt stop. When Brad looks up again, he's quietly desperate and drained and inexorable in his conviction. "After all the clusterfuck of shit we've seen, I want one thing kept intact. I don't think it's too much to ask. It can't be too much to ask."

Words, all of them, come to a trailing stop. Nate's a long ago learned how to command words, to be at ease with them, to be more familiar with them than with a 203. He's since also learned that there are things even your best weapons are defenseless against.

The Marine Corps has been steadily testing Nate's limits; most of them, if not all, have been expected. And this hasn't been, and this - this he can't.

Words, his words, now die in his chest, useless.

Nate watches as Brad's face gradually settles into its usual impassive state, watches its inarticulate loss, watches when Brad collects himself and stands up, when he offers Nate a hand to help him onto his feet.

Nate watches Brad's hand on Nate's arm, supporting him up. Watches Brad's dirt-covered fingers return to where they belong, taut over the trigger of the rifle. They still tremble.

Nate can't be what this man is looking for, even if he wants to be.

Especially if he wants to be.

And yet.

Nate places his hand over Brad's wrist. He feels Brad's eyes on him, but Nate stays still and waits until the faint tremor of the hand underneath his is absorbed into his palm.

Then he lets go.

"No, it's not." Nate waits until Brad's eyes meet his. It's a slow, agonizing wait, but with Brad, there's no concession, no middle ground, and he doesn't want any compromise, not knowing what he will find there. "It's not too much to ask."

Words, when they return, no longer quite capture what he wants. Nate can't say he won't break, can't promise he will stay intact for Brad, that none of this would turn into dust. Yet he has nothing else more valuable to offer, and he wants to give them, however feeble.

"After this-" Nate stops. After this. After this is over. If this could ever be over.  If there could ever be a world where he could finish this sentence.

But he doesn't have to, because, as always, Brad saves him the trouble.

Brad lets out a single, shaky breath, but his voice doesn't shake when he says, "Yes, sir."

Brad's hand over the rifle is steady, like a promise that not all of this will come to dust. He turns halfway toward their camp, halfway toward Nate, waiting for Nate. Waiting for Nate to take the first step back.

So he does.

 

 **END**


End file.
